I’ve told you before that sermons sometimes change in the light of events and circumstances. Something shifts, new information surfaces and what was written is put aside to make room for new insights and reflections. That is what happened with me yesterday. 

I learned that a member of my small Northumbria community experienced a massive brain aneurysm during the Good Friday service yesterday and passed away in hospital in the early hours of yesterday morning. His wife, my friend, is of course, stunned and in a state of disbelief, a place I am very familiar with. As a person of deep faith, how does she celebrate Easter in this place of such deep loss? 

Today’s Gospel tells us that Mary Magdalene came to the tomb of Jesus in the early hours of the morning while it was still dark and found the stone that had been placed in front of the tomb had been rolled away. I have read this particular Gospel many times but never really paid attention to those words “while it was still dark”.  

And it was dark in more ways than one: the followers of Jesus were grief stricken, bereft, stunned … in disbelief, and yes, they were also afraid, very afraid, that what had happened to Jesus would happen to them too. They had barricaded themselves in the same upper room where just three days ago they had shared that last meal with Jesus, their master and friend. And now, it seemed that all hope had gone. It was dark on so many levels. On the deepest level, their faith was shattered, their loss profound and their hope shattered to the core. 

What does it mean to experience death at Easter, the highpoint of our liturgical year? The season of lilies and cherry blossoms, of bells and alleluias? It’s a season of proclamation, the dawning of a new day, filled with hope. “He is risen! He is risen indeed, Alleluia” 

I believe in the joy of the resurrection with all my heart but as I grieve with my friend and member of my community, I am drawn this morning to other aspects of the narrative. I am drawn to what Frederick Buechner calls the darkness of the resurrection itself, that morning when it was hard for Mary Magdalene to be sure what she was seeing. 

The Gospel of John presents a picture of the disciples madly running in all directions; stumbling, confused: is it an angel sitting there in that dimly lit tomb? are those shadows grave clothes? is that man standing there a gardener? Early in the morning while it was still dark! 

And it struck me yesterday: that’s where Easter begins… in the dark, when everything seems to be over. In the darkness of a country torn apart by war, in a democracy that seems to be spiraling out of control, in the lived hell of a human being fighting addiction, in the desperation of the unhoused, the struggle of the refugee, and yes, in the early dawn hours of a hospital room as a loved one transitions to eternal life. 

The fact is the resurrection happens in total darkness: sometime in the predawn hours of Sunday morning, a great mystery unfolds in secret. No sunlight illuminates the event, no human being sees it take place. Whatever the resurrection was, it took place in Holy darkness, a mystery known only to God and defying all human attempts to explain it or to fully understand it. All we know is that in a tomb, over 2000 years ago, God worked in secret to bring life out of death. Somehow, in total darkness, God saved the world.  

This is our faith, this is our hope, and it’s deeply personal. Mary was the first witness to the resurrection, the first to encounter the risen Jesus, and she didn’t recognize him immediately. Only when he spoke her name did she know who he was, and then, Jesus commissioned her; sent her to proclaim the good news to the disciples that he who was dead and laid in the tomb is fully alive. She was the first to preach the Gospel: the good news that Jesus lives. She was the apostle to the apostles. 

During the next days, he will make himself known to his disciples. They too will not recognize him immediately. But his relationship with each one of them is deeply personal, and it is within this relationship that they already have with him that they will come to recognize him. 

In today’s Gospel, Mary sees Jesus first because she is not afraid to venture into the darkness and to remain there. Peter and John leave when they see the empty tomb, but Mary stays in the darkness, stays in the bewilderment, stays with the loss and discomfort. She stays with what feels unbearable. 

Why didn’t Mary or Peter or John recognize him right away? Why don’t we always recognize his presence in our lives? 

Because he doesn’t always look the way we expect him to look, he doesn’t let us cling to our preconceived ideas of him.  Just as we begin to think we know who he is, he disappears again, and yet, like Mary, he calls us each by name, up close and personal. He calls us into relationship, but he won’t be pinned down. His relationship with each one of us is evolving, ever growing and changing, and in the darkest times of our lives, he is closer to us than ever. 

The message for us this morning is that Jesus comes in the darkness and sometimes it takes a long time to recognize him. The resurrection can’t be explained in scientific terms. What matters is encounter. What matters is encountering the risen Jesus and in the mystery of his rising, finding hope for our own. 

So, on this Easter morning, may the Christ who rose in darkness lead us into new life, light and hope. May we too know him in the half-lit places, the shadowy places, the places of darkness and profound loss. May we have the courage to linger in those hard places until we hear him call our name. Christ is risen, he is risen indeed, Alleluia. 

 

 

 

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